


Even the Dogs

by melo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Collars, Dehumanization, Dog Fighting, M/M, slave fics never are, this fic ain't going to be pretty rainbows, warning for possible future implications of past rape or future scenes of attempted sexual abuse, werewolf fighting ring
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 10:56:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melo/pseuds/melo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“And let the world know that we’re the two idiots who stole a werewolf from a secret underground were-fighting ring? And pulled the fire alarm at said secret underground were-fighting ring?” Stiles huffs a laugh that sounds forced to his own ears. “Okay, so the authorities get to put down another rabid wolf, and we get shot by some mobsters. Sounds fantastic.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even the Dogs

Stiles is not dumb.

Stiles gets straight A’s and would be first in his year if not for Lydia Martin – not that he minds, because how could he ever mind being second to a goddess – and everyone he’s ever met can attest to his capacity for speech. He is, however, prone to risk taking and is known for his poor decision making. Of course, the decisions he makes are only ever poor in hindsight. How could Stiles have known it would be a bad idea to follow his dad to work in the trunk of the cruiser? It was one time, and Stiles still trusts his dad’s ability to handle a car during a high speed pursuit.

Anyway, all the best stories start with a bad decision, and by the time Stiles is seventeen, Stiles has enough stories to replace the books on the shelves of the high school library. Which is to say, there is room for more. So when Stiles catches wind of a rave going down at a club downtown, rather than staying in for another night of gaming in an empty house, Stiles decides that life could use a little more live action. Naturally, Scott is dragged along and in no time at all the two of them are sitting in Stiles’ old Jeep, parked outside of a derelict warehouse in the bad part of Beacon Hills; the part that Stiles’ dad may or may not have implied he shouldn’t wander into.

Stiles, however, is not wandering. He is entering with intent.

“I dunno, man, this place looks really, really sketchy,” Scott tells Stiles, and chews worriedly on his lip.

Stiles would agree, because yes, the warehouse does look like it’s on the brink of collapse, the siding a rusted collage of scrap metal, but he can hear the music and the thump of the bass tingles through his fingertips from where they rest on the steering wheel. “Maybe it is, but c’mon, we’re probably the only teens in this city that aren’t crammed into that sweaty metal death trap right now.”

Scott doesn’t seem convinced.

“Seriously. I bet everyone and their chemistry teacher is in there. Even Greenberg is probably in there. Allison is _definitely_ in there.” Stiles doesn’t have to turn his head to know that Scott’s eyes light up like fairy lights on a Christmas tree. If Stiles had a gentler heart, he wouldn’t resort to peer pressure or baiting using Allison’s name, but it’s really all for the best. Having carried a torch for Lydia for almost ten years, Stiles is the master of unrequited love and he knows what unrequited love is _not_. If Stiles won’t get laid for the foreseeable future, he can ensure that at least Scott will. It’s what best friends are for, and Stiles is the most awesome best friend Scott will ever have.

“Allison?” Scott asks in that warbling voice he uses whenever his vocabulary is reduced to one name.

“Yes, Scott. Allison.” Stiles shakes his head, but he can’t fight back the fond grin that breaks across his face. “Let’s go get ‘er, tiger,” Stiles says and slaps Scott on the back. They lock the Jeep up behind them and walk up to the warehouse, but immediately Stiles sees the flaw in his perfect plan.

What Stiles first thought was a stack of crates covered in a tarp is actually a huge bouncer in black leather standing sentry by the front entrance. Suddenly, Stiles’ fake ID feels as flimsy as Kleenex in his pocket. It also occurs to Stiles that he should have pulled on something a little more club-worthy than a hoodie over a graphic tee. A shirt proclaiming him to be a ‘Stud Muffin’ really isn’t going to cut it. The guy looks like a cross between the Hulk and a truck, and Stiles doesn’t want to know how Ford tough he is.

Neither does Scott, so while Stiles stutters to a halt just outside the warehouse lights, Scott hustles them into the dark alley nearby. “Maybe there’s another way in?” Scott says, uncertain.

Somewhere along the wide flank of the warehouse, they do find another door. It’s much smaller than the front entrance and appears to be a sort of fire exit, tucked past a series of dumpsters. Unfortunately, it’s possible that the door is rigged to an alarm – the old EXIT sign above the door is glowing faintly, still functional – but most importantly, there’s no one else near it.

“Okay, good, we have a door. Now, do you have a hair pin or something? Maybe one of Allison’s?” Stiles whispers to Scott, eyes fixed on the keyhole of the door handle. “Or maybe if we have a cinderblock? I saw a couple tutorials on this – or okay. Okay. Maybe we can just walk right in...” Stiles trails off; he watches Scott pull the handle, opening the door which was apparently not even fully shut. “Okay. Awesome. Good job, Scott.”

Scott rolls his eyes, which is just unfair. It’s not wrong of Stiles to think the club would at least lock the side door, considering they hired such beefy security for the front. Although, once the door is open, Stiles isn’t so sure that it belongs to the club.

“So... is it underground?” Scott asks dubiously as he looks down the long and narrow stairs descending into pitch black darkness.

Stiles shrugs. The beat of the bass thrums through his feet and through his palms, where they rest on corrugated metal. “Let’s find out,” he says and steps down onto the stairs, eager to follow the thump of music conducted through metal.

Scott looks really unhappy about the whole situation, but Stiles knows Scott will follow and he isn’t wrong. They tip toe down together, hands gripping the thin railing. Stiles is especially careful to feel for the next step before putting his weight on it. There aren’t any safety lights – no lights at all – and Stiles knows that falling victim to his uncoordinated limbs would be worse than horrible in this place. Who knows how far from the bottom they are? Logic says the stairs can’t go for more than a few yards before reaching a landing, but the darkness feels alive, the music coiling through the walls and echoing down the spiralling steps, almost deafening. It’s like they’re walking into the belly of a beast. Stiles doesn’t even pull out his cell phone to use the screen light. He’s not sure he wants to see too far ahead of him. 

It’s just a trick of the darkness, but after what feels like an eternal descent, Stiles finally spots a sliver of light. This happens around the same time that he stumbles and trips; stepping down, expecting more staircase steps where there is only the final landing.

“Woah, are you okay?” Scott asks. He’s barely audible over the pulse of the music and... screaming?

“Yeah, just... what is that?” Stiles picks himself up and wipes his scraped palms on his jeans. Hopefully his jeans are clean-ish.   

“I dunno, but I don’t think we’re going the right way. Is it just me, or is the music _less_ loud?” Scott goes on worrying, but Stiles isn’t listening. Stiles is pushing open the door in front of him, letting more light spill into the stairwell; more sound.

“Holy God.” It is definitely screaming that Stiles hears, there’s no mistaking it. Men screaming, women screaming, and something else, too, which Stiles really can’t identify. Overall, it’s terrifying. It’s not that they’re screams of pain, but they’re not exactly squeals of joy. It’s like the roar of a crowd, only more raw, more demanding and wild and crazed. Obviously, this isn’t the club they were looking for. 

“Jesus, what’s going on?” Rather than backing up like Stiles wants, Scott leans forward to peek past the door and in the process, pushes Stiles across the threshold.

Stiles enters gracelessly, arms banging into the door as they pinwheel to keep his balance. The door slams open with the force of Stiles’ flailing, hitting some guy standing behind it and knocking him out cold.

It takes about five, frozen seconds for Stiles to take everything in after that.

He’s on some sort of catwalk that lines the sides of a huge, square room. The room cuts through multiple floors, opening up to several other catwalks that are crowded with screaming people, some leaning over the railings, some pumping their arms in excitement, and all of them looking to the centerpiece of the room: a huge cage suspended from the ceiling by lengths of chain. The cage is a cube of silver mesh that swings back and forth over empty space, pushed to and fro by the frenzied mob on the catwalks, and the wide, diamond-shaped gaps in the wire are large enough to offer a view of the gruesome activity inside.

Stiles doesn’t want to look any closer, but he can’t help but notice the red that seeps from the cage floor like rain.     

“Oh God, oh God, oh God, we need to go–” Stiles chokes out, but when he turns to herd Scott back outside, Scott isn’t there.

Instead, Scott is leaning over the railing like a moron and yelling, “ _What are you doing? Stop!_ ” and those are Stiles’ thoughts exactly, because _what is Scott doing? Stop!_

Thankfully, there’s too much screaming for Scott to be clearly heard, but those closest to the door turn to him with confused faces, muttering to each other about the very out of place teen yelling at them. Stiles knows that it’s only a matter of seconds before more people spot Scott, and this is not the type of place where teenagers are given slaps on the wrist for trespassing, oh no. On pure impulse, Stiles grabs the lever of the fire alarm beside the door and _pulls_.

Stiles is expecting either nothing or the snap of a breaking lever, because that’s just how Stiles’ luck works, but not this time. By some miracle, the fire alarm actually responds. The blare of the alarm is sudden and piercing, the volume enhanced by the enclosed space and Stiles thinks he might actually go deaf, and if he goes deaf he might eventually go dumb, but he consoles himself with the thought that at least he’ll never be dumb like Scott, because seriously, _what the hell, Scott?_

“If they don’t kill us, I’m going to kill you!” Stiles shrieks at Scott, one hand pressed tightly to his ear, the other wrapped around Scott’s wrist and trying to tug him back outside. Scott doesn’t hear him – hell, Stiles can’t even hear himself – but he also chooses to ignore Stiles’ very obvious prompt of _we need to get out NOW_. Rather than doing the sensible thing and getting gone while the getting is good, Scott elbows his way upstream, fighting the rush of screaming people stumbling to the exits. Of course, now would be the time that Scott’s body forgets it has asthma, and somehow Scott manages to both fight through the crowd and drag Stiles along behind him like a useless wheel clamp, all while ignoring the wail of the alarm.

Stiles doesn’t know how it only took fifteen minutes for the night to go from possible disappointment to full blown acid nightmare, but it has, and Stiles’ pitiful moan goes unheard as Scott stops at the spot on the catwalk where there is no railing, the spot where the cage has come to rest against the catwalk.

“Don’t you dare open that door, Scott. You are not _Jesus_ and you aren’t going to _die and rise again_ , so don’t open that–” There is only one latch on the silvery cage door and it doesn’t even need a key. Stiles questions the intelligence of that, but then he sees the tubes of black powder looping around the cage and the pieces all fall into place. Stiles doesn’t know how he didn’t realize before. “ _Fuck_ , Scott, seriously don’t, there are _werewolves_ –” but no one hears his warning and the latch pops open.

Stiles braces himself for death, but seconds pass and still the only pain Stiles feels is in his ears and the splitting headache started by the fire alarm. He cracks open an eye he doesn’t remember closing and sees Scott dragging something – some _body_ – across the wet floor of the cage and towards Stiles.

Stiles thinks he can taste bile splashing up the back of his throat, but he does his best to hold it in because vomiting in wounds is bad, even if it’s in the wounds of what looks like a carcass that’s beyond saving. Then again, maybe it would be better for Stiles and Scott’s safety if the thing got an infection and died. There’s only one body in the cage and Stiles knows that’s not how were-fighting works. Stiles doesn’t dare glance down to the void beneath the cage. Seeing dismembered limbs and butchered flesh isn’t going to help anyone, but then again, neither is freeing the bloody victor from his cage.

Stiles bites back his frustration, because he can’t believe that Scott is really going to do this – is really going to make Stiles help him lug a half-dead body up several flights of stairs and then probably to his Jeep – but he also knows that he’s going to do it. Just like Scott followed Stiles down those steps in the first place, Stiles knows he’s going to follow Scott, bloody baggage in tow despite his better judgement. So Stiles begins to help Scott along with his insane rescue mission, hoping to hurry the process up so they can get the hell out of Dodge before either the authorities show up or the owners of the club return. Stiles holds the cage door open for Scott and once Scott and the body are through, Stiles picks up the bottom half – and _Jesus Christ_ , it’s heavy. He’s pretty sure this is only working because of Scott’s adrenaline fuelled save-my-baby strength – and helps Scott carry the thing down the catwalk and towards the nearest exit.

Stiles just keeps his eyes fixed on Scott’s, focusing on the wan and thankful smile on Scott’s face, on the panicky sweat of Scott’s brow and the fact that Scott is going to owe him _so much_ when they get out.

Somehow they make it back to the Jeep without slipping on any blood, and Stiles really deserves a medal for this. Stiles can’t see the bouncer at the front gate anymore, but there are still a few stragglers – oblivious club-going dancers, judging by their neon clothing and the glow-sticks hanging from their necks – stumbling from the ground floor of the club. Cars are drunkenly tearing off in every direction and Stiles hopes everyone’s too busy being wasted and confused to notice him and Scott. His ears are still ringing and his brain is pulsating in his skull and his hands are so, so gross, and he doesn’t even want to _think_ about cleaning up his Jeep later – “Scott, I don’t know what the hell you were thinking, but please, _please_ , tell me that you thought about what comes next.”

Scott looks down at the bloody lump ruining the trunk of Stiles’ Jeep. “Uh...”

The internal scream that shakes through Stiles is like something from the San Andreas Fault, but Stiles doesn’t have the time to unleash his full fury on Scott. He can hear the sound of sirens approaching, and the night would only get worse if they got caught with a bloody _werewolf_ in the back.

Stiles shoves Scott towards the passenger door and then himself into the driver’s seat. They screech out of the empty parking lot, almost hitting a fleeing club-goer, and Stiles struggles to maintain the speed limit once the warehouse is out of view.

“Where to, good sir?” Stiles asks Scott, bitterly sarcastic.

Scott winces, bracing himself against the roof as Stiles takes a left too quickly. “I don’t know.”

“Really, Scott. Really? What was that back there? Are you _trying_ to get us killed? ‘Cause maybe we got out of that place alive, but there is a freaking _werewolf_ in my trunk, and Scott, your mom won’t even let you keep a goldfish, how are you going to keep a were- _WOLF?_ ” Stiles all but screams, slamming his hand on the horn and spooking the driver in front of them.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! But it’s not like we could just leave him there!”

“Actually, yes, we could’ve. Easily. But noooooooooo. You have to be a big damn hero.”

 “Stiles, you don’t mean that,” Scott says, and Stiles tries really hard to keep watching the road, but Scott’s puppy eyes are like tractor beams.

Stiles feels like he’s going to shake out of his skin, he’s so angry – or maybe just freaked. His blood is racing faster than it does after twenty suicide runs around the lacrosse field. It’s a battle to keep his driving smooth and inconspicuous when his leg won’t stop bouncing in agitation.

“This is all because of Allison, isn’t it?” Stiles doesn’t really mean it, though. Allison might be the big damn activist, but this is what Stiles gets for trying to educate Scott. After rifling through one of his dad’s cases, Stiles had spent a week researching everything he could about were-fighting and what he found wasn’t pretty. Were-fighting was outlawed a couple years back, but it’s hard to prevent when old money considers it part of their heritage, their birth right. Werewolves are still kept like pets, sometimes like prized hunting dogs, and the people who own them have enough power to keep things under wraps, to own whole packs and use them with impunity.

“Jesus, Scott. What are we supposed to do now, hmm?”

“I’m sorry,” Scott repeats, head ducked low.

Stiles sighs and feels the anger drain out of him, leaving nothing but nervous energy behind. Damn Scott for making him feel like he’s kicking a puppy. He can’t even suggest turning the werewolf over to the proper authorities. It would just be put down, and though Stiles couldn’t care less right now, it would ruin the whole point of this ridiculous exercise in bull-headed heroism.

“You owe me so, so much.” Stiles shakes his head as he pulls out of the holding pattern he’s been driving in for the past ten minutes and decides on a destination.

Scott doesn’t quite understand until they turn onto Stiles’ driveway and into his garage.

“You’re lucky my dad left this morning. He won’t be back from his little police powwow for a couple days,” Stiles says. He makes sure the garage door is fully closed behind them before getting out and opening the door to the trunk. “We can lock this thing up in the basement for now, but we need Deaton first thing tomorrow, capeesh?”

“Capeesh.” Scott grins, relieved. He makes to start lifting the werewolf out of the trunk, but Stiles stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Hold on a sec, my house ain’t exactly pet proof.”

Stiles spends the next several minutes scurrying around the house, clearing the hallway of anything breakable and laying down a pathway of newspaper from the garage to the basement steps. For a basement that belongs to a police detective, it’s awfully creepy. The basement is unfinished with only a few bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling and the washer and dryer tucked into a corner. Stiles takes an armful of newspaper and throws it down the basement steps and the pages scatter like leaves, but Stiles isn’t as concerned about keeping the basement clean. The floors are concrete and there’s a convenient drain in the middle. Stiles can just hose everything down after.

With his preparations complete, Stiles sticks his head back into the garage and throws an old plastic toboggan at Scott. “Okay, I’m good to go.”

“Okay,” Scott says, “but could you, uh, help me? He weighs, like, a ton.”

“Do you remember that time you had a bleeding nose in front of me?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

“If you remember, then you’ll also recall that I really don’t do well with blood.”

“But you helped me carry him to the Jeep–”

“And that used up all the tolerance I have built up to blood.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“I don’t care, Scott. I laid out a yellow brick road for a reason.”

Scott gives in sullenly and tries to take the werewolf out of the trunk, forklift-style. Of course, the werewolf is too bulky for Scott to hold and it falls onto the toboggan with a dull thud. Both Stiles and Scott wince at the impact. “Werewolves are fast healers. No worries.”

Scott bobs his head in agreement and begins to drag the toboggan across the garage and into the house. The newspaper road gets caught under the toboggan and ends up accumulating like snow beneath it, but the effect is a smoother ride and no scuffs on the wood flooring, so Stiles counts it as a win.

When they get to the top of the basement steps, Scott pauses. “How do we–”

Stiles solves the problem by giving the back of the toboggan a firm kick. It jitters on its way down, trailing shreds of newspaper, and spills its passenger at the foot of the steps. “Like Home Alone. I’ve done it before.”

“You’re kind of an asshole,” Scott says, frowning at the body sprawled at the bottom of the stairs.

“No,” Stiles says. He runs to his dad’s office and returns with a standard-issue collar. He slaps the collar into Scott’s hands. “Now I’m an asshole. Go put a leash on that thing.”

“What is this?”

“Basic were-collar: silver casing for strength, Mountain Ash core for containment, concentrated Aconite for control.” Stiles grins, pulling on the collar until it’s at its largest size. “And it’s adjustable.”

Scott fingers the deceptively delicate collar. For all the features in its design, the metal band is only two inches wide at its broadest point and no thicker than a piece of cardboard. It’s sleek and smooth with only a hinge and latch to interrupt the circle. The size adjustment mechanism is cleverly hidden, and the Aconite hook is barely visible, just a small raised point on the inside of the collar that’s like a tiny stinger. 

“And you have this because...”

“One of Dad’s buddies in animal control.” Stiles shrugs. “Put it on it.”

“No, you do it. I carried him.”

They argue about who has to put the collar on the werewolf for far too long, but Stiles ends up agreeing to the task on the condition that Scott washes the Jeep, inside and out. Stiles lets Scott win this time, but only because Scott will be paying for his car’s gas for the rest of his life. Scott just doesn’t know it yet.

While Scott gets right on that, Stiles inches his way down the basement steps with the collar in one hand and a baseball bat in the other. He doesn’t think the werewolf will be regaining consciousness anytime soon, but better safe than sorry. The bat also comes in handy for prodding the werewolf, moving it into a brighter circle of light so Stiles can get his first real look at it.

Stiles’ first real look at a werewolf leaves much to be desired. The werewolf is naked, for one thing. For another, it’s coated in dried blood. So much so, that it doesn’t even look like blood. It looks more like the werewolf took a tomato soup bath after a bad encounter with a skunk. That thought is enough to keep Stiles’ heart rate relatively calm, and to keep a lid on his stomach. The awful metallic smell is unavoidable, though, and Stiles considers hanging air fresheners from the ceiling.

First thing’s first. The werewolf is lying on its side, its back to Stiles, and Stiles crouches down by its head. Stiles wants to keep his grip on the baseball bat, but putting on the collar requires two hands, and he briefly regrets harassing Scott into detailing his car. He could use some backup right now. He doesn’t want the blood to stain his Jeep, but he also doesn’t want to turn into a bloodstain on his basement floor.

“Keep it together, Stilinski.” Stiles takes a deep breath to prepare himself before laying his bat down nearby. Then he grabs the werewolf by the shoulders and – with some effort – flips it onto its back.

Stiles maybe yelps a bit when a clawed arm flops over with the movement, but all things considered, Stiles thinks he’s doing a stellar job of handling things.

Stiles takes another fortifying breath and adjusts his grip on the collar in his hand. He undoes the clasp and opens the collar as far as the hinge will go, until the silver hoop looks like two silver crescents. Then he reaches forward, wielding the collar like some sort of shield.

Stiles can’t help the small drawn-out, pre-emptive wail he makes as he slowly fits the collar around the werewolf’s neck. The werewolf’s neck is like a pillar of stone and Stiles swears the collar isn’t going to fit, even with an adjusted diameter. The process is more nerve wrecking than taking an exam he didn’t study for. It’s worse than that time the Jeep’s acceleration pedal got stuck on the highway. Stiles has to position the Aconite hook over the nape of the werewolf’s neck, but he can barely see what he’s doing through the squint of his eyes as he fumbles to close the clasp before the werewolf wakes up or the collar breaks or some other typically disastrous thing happens. 

Somehow, the collar finally closes with a tiny _click_ and Stiles becomes aware of the cold sweat rolling down his forehead, but he doesn’t dare release the collar to wipe it away. He has to secure the hook at the nape of the werewolf’s neck. Stiles does so with a firm press of his fingers to the collar and feels the snag of flesh on metal at the same time that the werewolf surges upward.

Stiles’ pre-emptive wail turns into a hysterical shriek he will deny with his last breath, and no one can say otherwise because no one can hear it over the werewolf’s unholy roar.

Stiles tries to scramble back to a safer distance – not that any place within the basement will be safe – but the werewolf grabs his hands before Stiles can even begin his retreat. Stiles is seriously going to piss himself for obvious reasons, and some part of him hopes that will deter the werewolf from turning him into a midnight snack, but he doubts it. The werewolf’s grip is bruising – approaching bone-breaking levels of pain – and Stiles is trapped. His whole world has narrowed to the two points of the werewolf’s eyes, two brilliant lights that are as blue as the hottest flame and immeasurably more consuming.

There isn’t even enough time for Stiles’ life to flash before his eyes, but just before the werewolf can lean forward to tear Stiles’ throat out with its teeth – its flat _human_ teeth – there’s a whoosh of air and the sharp crack of wood meeting bone.

The werewolf slumps forward, unconscious on Stiles’ chest and Stiles almost sobs with relief. His eyes meet Scott’s over the werewolf’s body, and Stiles can see how Scott is trembling. The baseball bat drops from Scott’s slack grip and then Scott is lunging forward, dragging the werewolf off of Stiles and prying the werewolf’s claws free from where they’ve dug into his wrists.

“Shit! Careful with the merchandise,” Stiles scolds shakily as the claws come out with a wet and painful tug he never wants to experience again.

Scott doesn’t seem to hear him though, rolling the werewolf’s body aside like a sack of garbage. “Stiles, oh my God, are you okay, Stiles? Stiles!” Scott shakes Stiles’ shoulders as if he’s unconscious, and he doesn’t stop until Stiles waves him away with a few mumbled reassurances. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You’re right, this is stupid. We should just – we should call someone. We should get this thing out of here...”

Stiles was the one who was nearly mauled by a werewolf, but it’s Scott who sounds like he’s on the edge of a breakdown. All Stiles can do is stare at the unmoving werewolf lying next to Scott. Its hairy face is slack and its eyes are closed, but its mouth is open and Stiles can see its clean, white teeth. They’re shockingly white against bloodstained skin, and very flat and square.

“No, we can’t. Not now.” Stiles shakes his head, “My dad’s a police detective, Scott. How do you think it’ll look: a bloody werewolf in his creepy basement?”

“We’ll just explain where he came from–”

“And let the world know that we’re the two idiots who stole a werewolf from a secret underground were-fighting ring? And pulled the fire alarm at said secret underground were-fighting ring?” Stiles huffs a laugh that sounds forced to his own ears. “Okay, so the authorities get to put down another rabid wolf, and we get shot by some mobsters. Sounds fantastic.”

Scott visibly sags. “So what do we do?”

Stiles gets shakily to his feet and checks his stinging wrists. The gouges are shallow, only about as damaging as having Mrs Marlow’s cat in his arms, all hissing and scratching but no real danger. Stiles takes a shuddering breath, one of many he’s taken tonight. “I don’t know.” Stiles ignores the questioning tilt of Scott’s head. “Nothing, I guess. We do nothing. I don’t know, Scott, is there a chapter for this in the Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook? ‘Cause if there is, tell me now. I am fresh out of ideas.”

“We can’t do nothing forever, Stiles. This isn’t like that time we found a kitten on the side of the road! We can’t just keep it in a cardboard box and feed it scraps when no one is looking!”

“Well, we decided on Deaton, right?” Stiles reminds himself and Scott. “Deaton’s a cool dude, yeah? He’ll help us.”

“Yeah,” Scott says, taking comfort from their not-much-of-a-plan plan. “Yeah, Deaton will know what to do.”

“Yeah.” Stiles nods, willing his heart to calm. It doesn’t really work, but Stiles already knew he wasn’t going to sleep tonight. The werewolf will be the only one getting any shut-eye, dreaming wolfy dreams while all Stiles can see is the heap of its unconscious limbs, belying the mountain of trouble it’s going to be. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is the beginning of something... I'm mostly focusing on In the Quiet right now, but I've heard that it helps to switch things up if you get writer's block, so the more the merrier, right?
> 
> Please review. Comments are much loved :)


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